


Crying Shame

by Kold



Category: Ballerina | Leap! (2016)
Genre: Child Abuse, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, Lgbt children, One sided, One-Sided Attraction, Religion, compensating, compensating through bullying, gay children, likely nothing sexual, one sided crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kold/pseuds/Kold
Summary: Groomed for success and eternal repression. The ballerina grew more like a little solider; if there was a threat to her femininity, they would be bullied into submission. One girl had to change schools for the harassment has gone too far. It wasn't because she was the most talented... because she was 'too pretty' and 'too nice'. Camille couldn't shake off Félicie as easy, and she hated that.





	1. Chapter 1

Camille didn't hate Félicie Milliner, even when she was stealing her thunder. Camille just found her uncomfortable - like the little rat faced girl killed her in a past life. Félicie was a threat, not only in competition but in another intangible way. _God makes no mistakes!_ warns her mother's voice in her skull. When Camille was nine, she used to mimic the statement forced down her throat for some needed levity. The militant matriarch's French accent that she adopted would always get butchered into an Italian one as she singsongs it verbatim.

Félicie kicked herself in the head from stretching incorrectly, a sight to be seen. Many pre-teen girl eyes averted that moment. Except for Camille. Who thought she was staring because it was funny.

"Not a good dancer, but you'd make an excellent circus clown."

A smug smirk showed itself under her pudge nose in juxtaposition at the novice Brit's snarl. Félicie missed when she wasn't sharing a training room with her. The feeling was very mutual indeed as their surroundings heated up with hatred.

Camille remembered long before she hit double digits in age, and this adorable German dance student named Eva Klum competed against her in a talent show. Camille had a doll named after her and everything. When she voiced her concerns to her mother, the pessimism partnered with her shame proven justified.

" _Gay!?_ " Her nostrils tightened and untightened as to smell something. "You're not gay."

And then her daughter was given two choices: sent to a pastor for 'reeducation' - or expelling the problem on her own and with the help of her mother. The later was chosen considering it would be much less traumatizing and just required her to ignore her undeveloped feeling of romantic love. Mrs. Le Haut wanted them stillborn, never to grow into a weed that will make her child want to do sinful acts. Teenagers were supposed to be asking questions like that, not her sweet young one. She had primitive theories about homosexuality common to Catholic Parisians in those times; Camille was pushed thrice as hard to focus on dance because she believe pursuing classically feminine activities will drive 'cold masculine energy' out of her soul. Except that Camille was never all that masculine in the first place, so it made little sense.

Groomed for success and eternal repression. The ballerina grew more like a little solider; if there was a threat to her femininity, they would be bullied into submission. One girl had to change schools for the harassment gone too far. It wasn't because she was the most talented... because she was 'too pretty' and 'too nice'.

Camille couldn't shake off Félicie as easy, and she hated that.

"This little brat think she could steal your identity? She's positively homely." Mrs. Le Haut said, offended by the predicament.

"I agree mother," Camillie lied. Not able to disagree more.


	2. Chapter 2

A headshot photo of a freckled eleven year old grew more wrinkled by the second. It stayed in one place after an impressively long time until one of its corners tore from the rest. Then another corner several minutes later. 

The woman standing behind the writing, long brown sandbag barks loudly,

"one—two—three..."

Camille was left breathless by her labor. But replied in between dry puffing.

"Destroy Félicie!"

"Four—five—six..." her mother continues.

"Make some higher kicks!" And those kicks couldn't get any higher. The bound feet of the baby ballerina darts at the picture with each spin. If not for the battle axe parent holding the sandbag in place, it would have swung into the ceiling. Possibly impaling a hole into it in addition. 

Félicie's face looked progressively sadder by the kick. The crinkles from the abuse ruined her cheery but mediocre smile beyond recognition. She now appeared to be frowning. Camille gave her one last look in the eye, as she panted like a dog while on her knees. Half of her mind wanted to finish the job but the other half wanted to apologize.

Her dim eyes followed her mother around in paranoia as she examined the dangling target. A pathetic, phalic mess with some little girl's face plastered on. One more strike of the legs and it would fly off into the air. After she commanded so, it came true. 

Not only has the picture detached itself from where it was glued... but the entire exercising program was in shambles with it. The supposedly fresh chain, silver with vitality, snapped in pieces. The sandbag tumbled down to the spot of the floor it hovered over. Camille stood over it and snorted aggressively.

"Almost perfect. Almost," said her trainer and parent. "That role will be yours."

Camille nodded. A rehearsed curtsy lead to her discovering the remains of Félicie's headshot under her foot, a rip scarred across it. Paper green eyes never seemed so precious.

They were spit on.

———

In the privacy of an empty dance gym room and no annoying classmates or insane mother around, Camille trains at her own pace. Her body relaxes against the ballet bar which is a preferable training method than anything planned for her in that dungeon. Albeit too easy. She simply went over the posture position and tested her technique. 

A distraction reared its ugly head in the big windows. Usually the sunlight blocks out any sightings on the roof but this day was more cloudy. A girl and a boy walked out onto it, that blond Russian male dancer and Félicie. Him again. Camille rolled her eyes. Even if she was interested in men, she still wouldn't understand the obsession with him. So what if he had blond hair, she had enough of her own. 

Camille snickered at her own joke. "Geez little rat, if you love him so much why don't you just marry him?"

The joke turned bitter, and her frustration intensified. Félicie and Rudy preformed a personal and romantic duet with each other. No choreography assigned to them for a show, no two identical solos being played side by side. A dance that involved a lot of touching, lifts, and eye contact. The kind of dance you saw in a play that was about lovers. Puppy love, but love nether less.

Camille gripped the ballet bar again before she loses her temper. She peaks over to the couple with her leg extended over her head. The anger flared a notch more.


	3. Chapter 3

Dancing without dance paws was not a good idea, so the local junior ballet store was where she went. Camille nearly shredded hers while training vigorously on a floor of brick, she'll grab a new pair fast and go back home. Normally her mother would treat her by buying them herself but her daughter itched to go outdoors. A moment without dancing was freedom. Camille liked the artform as a means to establish talent but her mother used it as a tools to control her. To strip her of her own individual passion.

Someone leaves the bakery a couple of stores down the street that catches her eye. A boy she thought she recognizes, he lugged around a bag of enough croissants to feed all of Paris. Camille soon remembers where she had seen him - he knows Félicie. A smile that taste of mischief shown upon her face.

"Deliver breakfast," he grumbles in disbelief. "I'm an inventor, not a servant."

she couldn't approach him any other way besides standing on her toes to see him over his empire of bread. Fortunately she didn't catch him by surprise enough for him to drop it all on the dirty road. One of his eyebrows, the one without a patch of missing hairs, quirked upwards. Camille felt awkward in the headlights of his sight. But forced herself to say hello.

"Do I know you?" The boy asked in suspicion.

Camille sighed. "I dance with your friend."

His eye twitch, nose sniffling. But he laughs, repeating the last word that left Camille's mouth. First straightforward fact stating, then in depression, then so quiet he couldn't even hear himself.

"Friend," he repeated for the final time. "That's all I'll ever be to her."

"Erm, are you okay?" Camille cautiously said.

"Nope!" Exclaimed the boy in faux cheer. Complemented with a patronizing swing of the arm. 

Sorry she asked, Camille was forced to listen to his tangent. He ranted and raved about how Félicie was smitten with a boy other than him. Confirming her fears. As said dream boy was described, a straight-teeth having East European, it was evident that Rudy was the two's common enemy. 

"Dumb pretty boy," he complains, "with a guy that pretty—she might as well be dating a girl."

Camille blushed. But giggled and agreed quietly. As a matter of fact, Camille could use this child inventor to achieve her goal. So she relies on her conniving persona to manipulate him. Rubbing his back and assuring him that Rudy will break Félicie's heart. However her heart will not mend for her best friend; it will mend for her enemy.


	4. Chapter 4

A fourteen year old boy who presumably had his share of sweethearts should be better at arranging a date than the eleven year old girl who has never even been kissed. If she wasn't terribly infatuated, Felicíe would find him a bore. Rudy was as acerbic as a bowling ball; Félicie will soon be able to see right through him and when she does, she will see that there was nothing in his head but air. He boasted that he was well-read, that he attends a prestigious school in Russia, that he could fold his leg behind his head and stand very still. Rudy said that it was his greatest skill and helped him achieve a lucrative dancing career.

Félicie adjusted her salvageable intelligence to a much lower level so she could adapt to how uninteresting her date was. In her heart of hearts, she knew it was true but stubbornly did not want to believe. The atmosphere of Paris convinced her this was what love meant. A table for two on a rooftop in an evening lit up with lights.

Camille wanted to vomit, to think she was jealous. Of what, exactly? The fact that this mediocre relationship was fine but the kind she desired to be in wasn't. Pivotally, that it was Félicie. Camille had something in common with her for once - gravely in denial when it came to love. She did not want to believe she had feelings for the rat faced girl with a big head and funny voice. But she did not deny that she disliked that smug blond haired boy. Camille also had a native crush, but Eva Klum almost had her sent to a correctional religion instruction.

"Partner, focus," whispered Victor, the inventor child she met outside a bakery.

Looking inventively through his binoculars, he did not witness Camille roll her eyes. She stomached his slightly irritating qualities to reach a common goal. Together they will sabotage the couple's night out, resulting in them splitting apart for good. Camille and Victor had a severe case of Roman Fever, or Paris Fever, rather. Their hormones were barely starting to stir and already they were doing insane things for a girl. Camille was about to realize exactly how far her accomplice was about to go.

He withdrew a little device from his pants and held it outward. It looked like a wide pen with a bright red clicker, which his thumb climbed on top of.

"Uh, what are you doing?" Camille questions captiously.

"Detonating my one and only 'Dirt Bomb'," Victor declared with pride.

She grabbed his arm to twist it lightly. "I thought we were going to write a fake letter! Did you eat stupid-cereal this morning?!"

Although he won't admit it, her plan was superior. Victor was too zealous about his new invention that he just needed to plant his prank and watch it in action. Camille's protests were ignored; she didn't want her Félicie potentially harmed by their antics. She will not be able to sleep at night if she was responsible for her pain.

"If I was stupid, how could I do..." He squeezes the button down. "This!"

Camille smothered her gasp into silent submission - a blinking light made Rudy's spaghetti tied fork burn up in a spark. The Russin boy immediately shut his mouth and tore the fork from his face. Félicie wondered what the issue was until the spark met her gaze as well. The pair were immobilized by bewilderment and showed no signs of retreating to safety. This provoked Camille to take responsibility for her mistake.

She flipped over her and Victor's hiding spot, which was a middling ledge, and sprinted to Félicie's rescue. Camille tackled her so roughly that she almost tipped over the roof and dropped stories down. She was protectively pinned by her rival against the stone pavement, the oddity of the event made her dizzy.

Rudy coughed gusts of filthy air out of his pure lungs. His temple of a body became a polluted factory of noxious dirt particles. The top of his head changed from fair blond to a browned shade, the color of wet sand. Rudy cried in horror of his transformation when he spotted his own reflection screaming back at him from within the candleholder. He fled the unflattering scene and would not be seen for another day to spend hours washing in a bathroom somewhere.

Félicie turned from her side to belly skyward and met Camille's blue stare of concern. Camille hopped off the girl with a scoff, brushing a few specks of dirt off her outfit. Just when she thought it was safe to look back, Félicie never pulled her eyes away from her. It took an approaching Victor for her to turn attention away.

"Nice going," Félicie complained before taking off herself, trapped in a fit of angry betrayal.

Camille shot Victor the nastiest look she could conjure. "Yeah, nice going."


	5. Chapter 5

Even when she's not dancing, Félicie is a glass home for her own emotions. They transcended performance in a way Camille both envied and admired from a distance. Without tears, without words, her body expresses pain effortlessly. She did not suspect a soul watched her strangely beautiful sulking on the edge of a rooftop in Paris. Yet there her enemy was, hugging a mysterious white box in her arms as she approached with care.

Camille clears her throat and dons her mask. The sympathetic frown transforms into a grimace, the texture of her voice pretentious when she declares, "y'know, my mother says spaghetti is a massively overrated dish and the Italians are a bunch of classless hacks with big noses. Not that I expect _you_ of all people to recognize fine cuisine, of course."

"Why are you always trying to get to me?" Félicie puts down her opened hand onto her knee, the impact was not hard enough to make a sound. An accurate representation of how her frustration was more exhausted than fiery. "One day, I'm going to get to you back"

She nibbled her lip because she did not want to lodge her foot in her mouth, though she was flexible enough to do so. It was a hard lesson to learn at eleven; sometimes your own mother would prefer you make another girl miserable than to love her. But her mother was not here, there was no reason to fight her feelings. The conflicting forces of wanting to run away from them and embracing them could not end in a truce. As beautiful as the pain etched in Félicie's face was, being the perpetrator made Camille feel sick on the inside. The clenching of the pit in her stomach was more than a tummy ache.

Félicie did not like herself when she accepted the box constructed of plain white cardboard from the one who was partially responsible for assaulting her dream boy with an explosion of soil. With painstaking caution, she picked at the dainty rope string that crisscrosses over the gift. If the content inside was nothing but innocent, a selection of desserts came to her mind because the container was identical to a pastry box. Camille would be insulted by the guess; it was better than any cake and certainly better than spaghetti.

A rack of tasty ribs laid at the bottom, with seared reddish meat clinging to the bones brushed heavily with rich sauce. Félicie never seen pork ribs let alone had them as a meal. Judging merely by her senses of sight and smell, there is no question why Mr. Le Hauf's daughter had privileges thanks to his specialty.

"Sorry for ruining your dinner-date," Camille apologized. It was a sincere apology treated with as much respect as she could give; her tone is not incoherent rushing through it like a chore, it was uncharacteristically patient and kind. Félicie gave the skin on her forearm a little pinch to see if it was all a surreal dream she was experiencing.

But nothing happened. When Camille was fleeing the scene, it was on her own account as opposed to a dream casting her out. She walked away quietly not to attract any more attention from Félicie than already necessary. The grateful orphan cries out several thank-you's before pondering for something new to say. Her competitor is not so cruel as much a byproduct of bad parenting.

Félicie may have not been able to afford a proper education - however she was bright enough to see that. The heroine inside her wanted to reach out and help, there was still time to as Camille decided to walk especially slow that moment. The weight of wounded pride shackled her athletic body to lag the earth. Or rooftop rather.

"Do you wanna..." Félicie trails off but had a swift recovery. "Wanna share them with me?"

"What?" snorted Camille inbetween laughter as if she was asked the most ridiculous request in the world. She returns back to the other girl, her attitude shifted from humble to its original conniving form. _Share them with her, that's like something I would ask— oh, wait_. It was immediate how her sneer dropped back into a sheepish frown.

She rests her backside on the ledge side by side to where Félicie sat. "Sure," she said, not as a change of heart but allowing herself to be honest at last. Legs, trained to the bone every other night, dangled and crossed at the ankles in leisure. The box of ribs was torn open into a flat mess of cardboard that could easily been eaten off of. Félicie had not a clue how to eat them and was in desperate need to be taught. Lucky for her, she was in good company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes this fic that I was motivated to finish by the surprising amount of neat comments. Sorry if the ending isn't satifying but I couldn't think of a better way to end it. Take care


End file.
